


I Find Your Voice Grating

by sparxwrites



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angry Kissing, Drabble, Drunk Castiel, Episode: s05e17 99 Problems, M/M, Sastiel - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 07:36:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I got your message." Castiel stands, sways a little, clings to the door frame. Standing is a little difficult right now, the world swimming and pleasantly easy to comprehend in front of his eyes. Black and white, like it used to be, the shades of grey that the Winchesters have taught him erased by the alcohol. Black and white, wrong and right, is not and is - they’re the only things that remain. It makes things remarkably easier. "It was a long message. I find the sound of your voice… grating.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Find Your Voice Grating

"I got your message." Castiel stands, sways a little, clings to the door frame. Standing is a little difficult right now, the world swimming and pleasantly easy to comprehend in front of his eyes. Black and white, like it used to be, the shades of grey that the Winchesters have taught him erased by the alcohol. Black and white, wrong and right, is not and is - they’re the only things that remain. It makes things remarkably easier. "It was a  _long_  message. I find the sound of your voice… grating.”

Not strictly true, maybe, but right now it is - any noise is grating, rough against his ears and brain, complicating a world the alcohol has somehow managed to simplify.

"What’s wrong with you?" asks Sam, and Castiel snorts, because it should be obvious - his words are slurring, clothes in (more than their usual) disarray, the smell of alcohol all over him. As he stumbles into the room, Sam seems to finally,  _finally_  get it. “Are you  _drunk_?”

"I said," growls Castiel, patience running out, "that I find your voice  _grating_. I would suggest you stop speaking.” He draws himself up to his full height, only swaying a little. It’s not much on Sam’s six foot four inches, but he has the might of the Lord behind him; or what’s left of it, anyways, Grace leaking out of his feet like blood with every tread.

He’s not thinking about the Grace. He’s  _not_. Or the rotting wings. He’s not thinking about anything right now, other than the buzz of alcohol and the grate of Sam Winchester’s voice. He’s  _not_.

And, because he’s not thinking about anything - definitely not his wings, his Grace, his home, his siblings, not thinking about them - he pushes Sam up against the wall and kisses him. Hard.

There’s nothing romantic about it. Nothing soft, nothing caring, just a sharp and desperate search for  _something_ , anything, a replacement for what he’s lost. Something to make up for all he’s sacrificed. He bites his way into Sam’s mouth, teeth bruising surprisingly soft lips, clacking a little against Sam’s in his vicious enthusiasm.

Yet Sam’s soft beneath him, pliant; shocked, certainly, confused and surprised, but when Castiel curls a hand in his hair and pulls, hard, drags the human’s head down so he doesn’t have to go up on tiptoes an crane his neck to make their mouths meet, Sam groans. It’s something more than shock, a twisted arousal at being manhandled by an angel.

It’s something Castiel can work with, because he  _needs_  this, needs to bruise and bite and take and take and  _take_  in a desperate attempt to claw back all that he’s lost, even if it means carving it out of Samuel’s blood and sweat.

He may not have much experience with human physicality, may be new to the peculiarities and sexuality of this body, of the hormones and rushing blood and naked skin, but he is millennia old. He knows sex, human sex, better than any human alive, knows the intricacies and variations and necessities of it even though he has had no need, no desire, to practice them before.

Now, though, he has both need and desire, and is grateful for his knowledge.

"I  _don’t_  want your voice, do you understand?” he asks, voice whiskey-rough and vodka-bitter, sweetened with fruit juice and Bailey’s and cream. “Do you understand, Samuel?” And Sam nods, nods like he’s drowning, like assent is the only think keeping him afloat.

"Good," Castiel mutters, pushing him to the bed and beginning to strip off the hunter’s plaid shirt, old jeans, worn undershirt, dark boxers. "Because I find your voice grating."


End file.
